"Coming around the curve of the avenue
My thoughts are happy.
Yet simply thinking this makes me glum,
For if they weren't happy, there'd be more variety:
Instead of being happy and glum
They'd be joyful and happy. What the heck.

Thinking bugs me, like walking in the rain
When the bus goes by, a huge wind splattering greasy water.

Ambitions and desires? My head's wet.
Being a poet isn't an ambition,
it's a version of being alone."

- Erin Moure, from 'What, me, guard sheep?' in Sheep's Vigil By A Fervent Person, a 'transcreation' of Pessoa/Caeiro's O Guardador de Rebanhos (The Keeper of the Sheep).


Popular Posts

Questions, but no answers: while editing a manuscript

Viva the Real - shortlisted!

‘The fast fold of fret lines’: Intimacy, ecopoetics, and the local